“We ready?” my man asks.
Nothing to do but do it.
“We’re ready.”
My man opens the door. I step inside with my coat open, hands visible. Peter’s eyes flick to my hands, clocking my gesture right away. Good. Let him see I’m not here for violence.
He doesn’t stand, however. He sits in his seat, like a king holding court, his legs spread, one hand flat on the table. He wears a pleased smirk, as if all is going according to plan.
Little does he know.
“Orlov,” he says, as if my name is an insult.
“Morozov.”
I sit at the other far end of the table. Johan nods to his father, then sits on the window-side of the table, right in the middle. “Alright,” he says, “let’s get this done. Father, by now, you know about the merger.”
“In all of its gory detail,” he says.
Johan goes on. “In that case, you should know it’s moving forward, nearly done. Our lawyers have given it their approval, and all that’s left to do is sign on the bottom line. And that will be that.”
“And that will be that,” Peter echoes. “Meaning, I’ll be cut out of my own company.”
“We all know this means you’ll be free to pursue your other ventures,” I say, “the ones you already have lined up. The ones that threaten to be a thorn in my side.”
He shrugs. “If you want to go legit, go. But don’t expect the rest of us to follow. Some of us still value the old ways. I don’t really care what you do.”
“Very well,” I say. “Then perhaps this meeting can be the first small step in the long process of ending this war for good.”
Another shrug. “Perhaps. I suppose that depends on whether or not you’re a good boy, Sasha.”
He’s teasing me, taunting me, trying to get a rise out of me. But it’s toothless. He knows as well as I do that we both make money if we’re both ‘good boys’.
Assuming he doesn’t throw me out of the window in the next ten minutes.
Johan gives me a signal, a slight, almost imperceptible nod.Do it now, he says without words.
“Peter, there’s another reason I called this meeting.”
He straightens in his chair. “Then out with it.”
“You’re going to want to explode. Don’t.”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t tell me how to act. Now, let’s hear it.”
“Gabriella Resse.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not yet.
“She’s yours.”
The silence somehow feels like a bomb detonating. Peter blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.
“What?” His voice is thin.
“She’s your daughter, Peter,” I say, leaning in. “She’s Louisa’s child.”
For a moment, I swear he stops breathing. Then he laughs, a deep, disbelieving laughter, so loud it echoes off the glass walls of the room.
